


Brewing Up Trouble

by vanillafluffy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Herbology Class (Harry Potter), M/M, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Potions Class (Harry Potter), Top Neville Longbottom, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-26
Updated: 2004-10-26
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: Draco has a crush, Neville has sexy amounts of self-confidence. Nevertheless, fooling around in the Potions Lab with Professor Snape in the next room is definitely a risky proposition.Originally posted as three interconnected stories in 2004 (Not even remotely canon-compliant for anything after OotP.)





	1. My Gryffindor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco realizes he has feelings for someone who doesn't particularly like him.

Everyone hates me. Being hated isn't a new sensation for me; between fear of my family's connections and jealousy of our wealth, I've been on the receiving end of my fair share of animosity over the years. Now that Father is in Azkaban for that stunt at the Ministry of Magic last spring, it's pretty well universal: I, Draco Malfoy, am the poster child for pariahs everywhere.

Mother was in hysterics half the summer; first Father was arrested, and then came the trial and sentencing, and if as that weren't bad enough, she was voted out of the Daughters of Hecate. Black-balled, as if she was some mudblood. At least we still have enough money to keep up appearances. If it weren't for that fact, I think she'd've folded by now, taken hemlock and been done with it.

I'm back at Hogwarts now, and what happens? Slytherin is half deserted; I'm alone in our year's dorm-Crabbe and Goyle, whose dads were also arrested during the Ministry faux-pas, can't afford tuition anymore. I miss them, not so much for their stimulating conversation-let's not kid ourselves, they're dolts-but because the new sport in the corridors is Draco-bashing. I'm lucky to make it from one classroom to another unscathed.

My fellow students aren't the only ones who are cold to me. The teachers say 'Malfoy' as if the name were vinegar in their mouths. Even Professor Snape, my own head of house, purses his lips when he addresses me.

There's nobody I can talk to. Pansy Parkinson is still around, but there are some things you can't discuss with girls. Like girls-and the realization that's been dawning on me for a while now, that they just aren't what gets me going. The agonies I've had in the changing rooms before and especially after Quidditch practice, powerfully aware of warm male bodies moving with casual ease through the routine of dressing and undressing and showering...

It's difficult to concentrate on the potion I'm supposed to be concocting, thinking of all that supple flesh. This is our first potions class of the term, with Gryffindor, naturally, and Professor Snape is glaring at me nearly as much as he is them. Plus, he's assigned us a fiendishly difficult elixir to brew. We've just gotten back, we're out of practice. It's not fair!

The stopper from my flask of cobra venom rolls off the table-the table I'm sitting at alone-and comes to rest beside a Gryffindor's cauldron. "Can you get that for me?" I ask him, glancing over there as I measure three drops into my mixture.

"Get it your own self, Malfoy," he says with contempt.

Taking a step toward the errant plug, flask in hand, I stop. Why haven't I ever noticed before what magnificent eyes he has?

He stands his ground, guarding his cauldron as if he thinks I mean to taint the solution within. He's never looked me directly in the eye before, not like this. He's grown taller this summer, quite a bit taller, and I feel faint. He's going to be a big, sturdy fellow, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by a longing to offer myself to him. Let him use me, let me pleasure him, oh Merlin-!

"Stop pissing about, Malfoy," he says roughly. His voice has gotten deeper and more confident. Last spring's events have changed his life, too, it seems. "Get your stopper and stop looking at my potion. I'm onto your tricks." His voice slides up just a little at the end of the sentence. Mine is still cracking, it sounds like I have laryngitis half the time.

Some of the blood returns to my head as I bend over to pick up the cork from the floor. You must be mad, Draco, falling in love with a Gryffindor. And certainly not that one. Merlin's beard, of all the people to pick!

But I haven't, I want to protest, although I don't know to whom. I haven't chosen any of it, not being a Malfoy or a Slytherin or queer-and my heart has made this particular decision without consulting me.

Covertly, I look over at him, newly broad shoulders filling out his robes, a frown of concentration on his face as he measures out scarab powder. My foolish heart could hardly have made a less suitable choice. He has more reason to hate me than most, given who I am and what my family has done.

My heart isn't the only foolish thing about me; staring at him, I've added too much of an ingredient without stirring properly. The contents of my cauldron start to give off a noxious steam, and now everyone in the room glares at me.

"That's a zero, Mis-ter Malfoy," says Professor Snape with disgust, vanishing the brew and dispelling the odor.

Scant yards away-I can almost reach out and embrace my Gryffindor-I see a trace of a smile on his full lips. His potion seems to be coming along adequately; for once, it's me getting told off for carelessness. Me, Draco Malfoy, the golden boy...golden no more, save for the radiance of the passion I feel...

Putting my equipment back into its case, I sit for the remainder of the class, my hands folded primly on the tabletop, trying not to look too obviously at the diligent figure in the red-trimmed robe, trying not to think of him not wearing that robe, of the mysteries it conceals. Beneath my own robe, I'm in agony again, and but I know better than to ask to be excused-not in Professor Snape's current mood. Otherwise, I'd seek out the nearest mop closet and achieve release, wondering just how grown-up my Gryffindor really is. Wondering, if I asked him, if he could hate me enough to love me, to let me kneel before him and serve him...

The bell rings to dismiss us, and he files out with the rest. I watch him depart, and rise, painfully, collecting my books and cauldron and supplies case. Is this how it's going to be in every Potions class? Watching and longing, grateful for even a contemptuous comment tossed my way?

Care of Magical Creatures, too, I think. Twice a week to be near him; is that far too much, or not nearly enough? Someone's book bag slams into my leg, and I hear a passing Hufflepuff snigger. They all hate me. This is going to be the most hideous year ever.

Walking away with his mates from Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom doesn't see me watching him, which is just as well.

...


	2. Anything for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation in Greenhouse #3 develops erotic elements.

It's fantastic, knowing the passwords to all four of the Hogwarts greenhouses. I led our class in Herbology marks in last year's OWL's, and Professor Sprout's been hinting that an assistant professorship might be available after graduation. That might even pacify Gram - all last summer, it was nothing but "Neville, you've got to work harder in school." "Neville, the Ministry needs you." "Neville, you must follow in your father's footsteps and become an auror."

Codswallop. I haven't got the temperament. I'm not a joiner, not a team player. I'm perfectly happy to be left alone with a bunch of green things to tend. Harry Potter, on the other hand, is going to make an excellent Auror, if Professor Snape doesn't fail him out of spite. He's certainly got the drive - it's what makes him a cracking good Seeker - and the fact that Headmaster Dumbledore has him as a teaching assistant for Defense Against the Dark Arts this year proves he has the skills.

I unwrap a pepper imp and pop it in my mouth as I step inside Greenhouse #3. Pocketing the crackling cellophane, I avoid the Devil's Snare creeping toward my ankle. Harry Potter...Neville, old man, there's such a thing as setting your sights too high, even if the fellow did save your life last spring and has eyes the color of fine emeralds. He's not bent that way; you only had to watch him watching Cho at all those DA meetings to see that. I blow a smoke ring at the glass ceiling. Too bad, he's pretty hot. Certainly the hottest thing in Gryffindor!

This is no time to let myself get distracted; I'm here to harvest sap from the Indigoneus Bellissima. My smile widens. I helped start the seedlings for this crop of Indigoneus last spring...these are my Indigoneus. Of course, to get the extra credit Professor Sprout promised me, I've got to successfully produce ink from the Bellissima that has the characteristic iridescent sheen to it. Simply harvesting the sap won't do it, it has to be properly distilled, and that's going to be rough. I'm no damn good at Potions, it's my worst subject by far - Charms and Transfiguration used to be close seconds, but my old wand got broken last spring, and I'm discovering what a tremendous difference the right wand makes.

"Birch, flexible, fourteen inches, dragon heart-string," Mr. Ollivander announced as a flick of my wrist sent a swarm of fireflies flitting through the wand shop. Nothing like that ever happened with Dad's old wand. I tried two or three simple spells while I was standing there, and they all worked - like magic is supposed to! This year, I'm passing everything but Potions - I more or less squeak by in there-and I may actually become a decent wizard one of these days.

Once all the ripe pods have yielded their sap, I hold the beaker up to the sunlight to admire the magnificent blue-gold color. The greenhouse is warm, and the fragrance of the Indigoneous perfumes the air with a rich aroma, a smoky, woodsy scent, like a fine cigar or fresh cut cedar, but with exotic, spicy undertones.

Behind me, there's a rustling of leaves, and I turn quickly as a figure tries to duck back the way it came. "Hold it!" I say sharply, and he freezes. Draco Malfoy - the last person I'd expect to find lurking in a greenhouse. "You know, you're awfully close to that Dahlonaga Georgiana." He skitters away from the plant, wide-eyed. I stifle a smirk. The Dahlonaga is perfectly harmless. "What are you doing in here?"

Malfoy doesn't say anything. He looks trapped; and I feel a small glow of satisfaction that for once, he's going to know how it feels. His bully boys aren't with him; they're not at Hogwarts this year. His eyes are pink and puffy from crying, and his usually immaculate hair is in disarray. Thinking about it, I realize that the 6th year Slytherins and Ravenclaw would've been the last group in here before lunch - he probably hid behind something and stayed behind when the rest left. Good job that didn't happen in Greenhouse #4 - likely all we'd've found there would be the clasps from his cloak.

Okay, the hottest guy at Hogwarts? Him, no question. Which goes to show that looks aren't everything, because he can be the nastiest little snake you've ever seen without half trying. I really don't like him - and yet he still manages to be downright tasty. "Answer me, Malfoy. I've got permission to be here because I've got Independent Study in Herbology. What's your excuse?"

"It's quiet. I didn't think anyone else would be here." His voice is so low I can hardly hear him, and he doesn't meet my eyes. This is so different from the arrogant little snot that I'm used to, I wonder if he's been charmed or something. I stopper the beaker of Indigoneous sap and carefully stow it away in my backpack.

Alone in a greenhouse with Draco Malfoy...the stuff my wildest dreams are made of. Taking a step closer to him, I savor the advantage of having gotten several inches taller over the summer. Now he's nearly a head shorter than I am, and I outweigh him by at least thirty pounds. I've spent years trembling around him and his entourage - but he's not so full of himself anymore. I could pound him into the floor, but revenge isn't what I'd like most from him. Not even close.

He's the one who's trembling now. "Please, don't hurt me," he begs, and I stand there thinking about what poetic justice it would be if I did repay him for some of the hell he's put me through. "I'll do anything!"

"Anything?" I repeat thoughtfully. "Anything at all?" His eyes meet mine for the first time, wide and panic-stricken. I've just been handed the perfect opportunity. Anything. "Are you sure?"

"Please don't hurt me." This time, it's barely a whisper, and he's not looking right at me. The tone he's using - soft-spoken and pleading - is downright seductive. Anything. Thinking I ought to be ashamed of myself, I get right next to him, looming over him, consciously trying to be as intimidating as I possibly can. I can hear his breath coming in shallow gasps. He's scared. Of me. I can see how a guy could get to enjoy being a bully...the sense of power is intoxicating. Under my robes, I'm reacting to him and the thought of it, of Draco doing anything...let's see if he really means that.

"Anything?" I ask him. Reaching out, I stroke his platinum hair, ignoring the little flinch he makes as my hand approaches. He wears it a bit long; as I sweep it back from his jaw, I notice a yellowing bruise on his ivory skin. "What's this? Someone been thumping on you?"

"Everyone," he murmurs, looking down at the stones of the greenhouse floor. "Even the other Slytherins." Yeah, he's not the golden boy anymore - since his dad got locked up for conspiracy with You-Know-Who, apparently Draco doesn't even have any Slytherin friends these days. After all, isn't the Slytherin motto "Don't get caught."?

His hair is fine corn-silk. "Take off your robe," I order him. Fata Morgana, I want to know if he's that blonde all over! "No one can see us from here" I tell him as he hesitates. "The door is closed, and there's a sealing charm on the outside. Do it!" And Draco does it.

Underneath the voluminous black silk is a body that could model for a Greek statue. Instead of a fig leaf, are a pair of dark green silk boxers. "Them too, Malfoy." Yes, he really is that blonde all over. I grin and feast my eyes. He may be blushing, but obviously, not all the blood is going to his head! Slowly, I circle him, viewing his nakedness from all angles. Beautiful. "Do you want me to take care of that for you?" I taunt him.

"Would you?" He's wide-eyed.

"In your dreams, Malfoy," I say, giving him what I imagine is something like the look he's given me all these years. "But you want me to, don't you?"

"Yes," he whispers, looking away again. Longing for it.

"You don't really think I'd satisfy the likes of you, Malfoy?" Looking at him gives my imagination a lot to work with. I've had thoughts about him late at night, when the dorm is in darkness and bed curtains are drawn for privacy. Now I've got even more material for fantasy...

"I'll do anything, Neville, anything..."

At this rate, he will be in trouble. No one is scheduled to be in here for the rest of the afternoon - and I know for a fact that Professor Sprout has gone into Hogsmeade for tea with Nurse Pomfrey. I have enough time and seclusion do all kinds of wicked things to him if I were so inclined...it's a good thing for him that I have some scruples. "Don't you ever learn?" I ask him, almost affectionately. "Anything?"

Draco gazes into my eyes for the first time this afternoon, not glancing away. "Anything for you..." He hesitates. "...Neville." Fata Morgana. The way he says my name, the way he's blinking at me - I've seen girls flirt that way with guys they like. I'm dreaming this, it can't be real. I try to keep up the callous fasçade. "You know, Malfoy, I look at you, and I wonder if there's a veela in the woodpile somewhere." He blushes. "Is there?" He nods, looking...shy? "Tell me."

"My great-great grandmother on my father's side," he whispers.

"That explains a lot," I mutter. No wonder he's so sexy, even though he's such a bastard. Lacing my fingers into his silky hair, I pull his head back and apply my mouth to his. To my considerable surprise, Draco doesn't protest. He's kissing me back, which I certainly didn't expect. He doesn't try to squirm free as my arm goes around his waist and pulls him closer. In fact, his eyes are closed and he rubs himself against me like a cat. Isn't that interesting...?

"Anything!" he gasps as our lips part. "Please!" He's clinging to me like Devil's Snare.

"Slytherin slut," I respond, but without consciously intending to, I give his shoulders a squeeze.

"My Gryffindor," he murmurs, his head resting against my shoulder.

How the hell did this happen? This is Draco Malfoy? The terror of Hogwarts? Lovey-dovey with me, of all people? I'm either the luckiest guy alive, or I'm hallucinating from the Indigoneous fumes. "And you'll do anything for me?"

"Uh-huh..." There's a dreamy expression on his face. I've got to research the effects of Indigoneous pollen; this can't be happening, can it?

"Okay then. You can get us time in the Potions lab. I've got a project I need to work on, and you're going to help me."

He blinks. "Huh?"

"Well, you're good at Potions, and you did say you'd do anything..."

.


	3. Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times in the Potions Lab.

When I ask Professor Snape for use of the Potions classroom, he stares at me with his coldest expression, and I'm sick with dread at the prospect of having to report failure to my Gryffindor.

"You are working on a project with Longbottom?" Professor Snape repeats in disbelief. "Trying to blow up the school, no doubt?"

"No, sir. Ink from...uh, indigo something. Bellissima."

"Indigoneous Bellissima."

"Yes, sir. It's extra credit for his Herbology grade and if I helped, perhaps I could get extra credit for Potions?" It's the only thing I can think of to explain why I'd ask, and clearly, Professor Snape thinks it's fishy.

"You and Longbottom." The note of suspicion in his voice makes me swallow nervously. "Collaborating."

"For extra credit, sir."

"Very well, Malfoy," he says finally, just when I've begun to despair. "But I'll be supervising you. You're not going to detonate anything in my dungeon."

And he's been doing just that. The first two attempts saw him hovering over us like a vulture, convinced that we were either in an unholy alliance to commit an act of sabotage or that we're both thoroughly inept and might manage to burn down the classroom out of sheer idiocy. Professor Snape finally seems to be convinced; tonight, instead of hovering, he's back in his office with the door half-open. He can't see us from where he's sitting, but his desk chair squeaks from time to time as he grades parchments.

The potions lab is quiet; there are little plop, plop, plop sounds as the ink we're distilling drips into the beaker. They say the third time is the charm, and I hope they - whoever 'they' are - are right. We won't be able to tell if it's worked until the brew cools.

Neville watches the hesitant flow intently, his elbow on the work table, his chin on the heel of his hand. His eyes follow each blue droplet as it falls from the spiral tubing to the glass flask below. I've already cleared away everything but the equipment still in use, and I sit on my stool quietly watching him.

It's so hard to act normally when I'm around Neville. My Gryffindor...only thoughts of how mortified he'd be keep me in line, otherwise I'd attach myself to him like a limpet and follow him everywhere. He's never gone out of his way to be nice to me when anyone else was around - unless you count the time he stopped Weasel the Prefect from beating me to a jelly. He gave the Weasel some dung about students dueling in the Charms corridor, and the burke went dashing off to exercise his authority.

Our first attempt at producing ink was a total failure; the sap stayed in the beaker - instead of being distilled, it transformed into a clear liquid with a hard blue shell on the walls of the flask. We experimented; the liquid, thinned with an alcohol base, made an excellent aftershave, and the blue coating, scraped off the flask, became putty-like when heated over a flame and could be molded before it cooled again. The second batch actually produced ink, but without the shimmering properties of the sap. It was still very nice ink, and we knew we were on the right track.

The last droplet hangs, suspended, above the slowly cooling blue liquid. Impatiently, Neville takes a scrap of parchment and brings it up beneath the reluctant bubble of hot ink. A blue trail trickles onto the parchment, and he wipes the edge of the beaker. We stare eagerly to see if it's what we've been working toward, but although it's brighter blue than the last batch, there's none of the shine there should be. Sadly, we look at one another. This would-be batch of ink contains the last of the Indigoneus harvest.

The beaker is still too hot to touch; glumly, I dismantle and clean the rest of the equipment. Then Neville gasps and catches my arm. He points to the flask sitting forlornly on the table. Turning my head, I see a flash of metallic gold-blue-silver. Cooled now, it's achieved perfection. Neville has several small bottles ready; with meticulous care, he begins to fill them with the iridescent ink.

Neville beams hugely as he surveys the product of our labors. Before I know what he's going to do, his hand tangles in my hair and he kisses me triumphantly. Thoroughly. Oh, Merlin's beard...he tastes like pepper imps...and smells like Indigoneus...his other arm snakes around my waist, crushing me to him. He's pinned me back against the table, and as our bodies rub together, we're both rigid with desire. I succumb to his mouth, the moist caress of his tongue upon my lips...

There's a squeal from Professor Snape's chair, and we start upright, breaking away from each other. I'm hot, embarrassed, guilty and defiant all at once. Professor Snape does not appear. False alarm. Neville smirks at the office door, a mischievous glint in his eyes. A scant thimbleful of ink remains at the bottom of the flask, and my Gryffindor regards it speculatively. "Get up on the table," he says to me in a voice barely above a whisper.

Obeying, I sit on the edge of the table, my legs dangling. He shifts me so that I'm sitting half-sideways, my right leg still hanging while my left leg is bent and my foot rests on the table. My robe rides up, exposing my crotch. Taking a brand-new quill from his bag, he dips it into the fluid in the beaker.

With a furtive glance at Snape's office door, he rests his free hand near my left hip, holding me still, and begins writing on my tender skin. The quill darts against my inner thigh as Neville prints neatly: 'P-R-O-'... It doesn't draw blood, but it pricks and scratches me lightly as he presses down. I've never realized before how sharp a quill-tip is. My heart is pounding. What if Professor Snape comes out here and catches us, what if another instructor or worse yet, another student found us like this? Fata Morgana, we'd never hear the end of it!

Part of me is terrified of the possible consequences, but the sheer bravado of the act is erotic... 'P-E-R'... How can Neville be so calm? His printing is perfectly neat. He shapes each letter oh-so carefully, maddening tickle-scratch against my inseam. He pauses to dip the quill again. 'T-Y'...

A gap, and he begins: 'O-F'... The hand steadying me is hot and I wish, oh, how I wish he'd move it...just a little. Just enough to stroke the green silk and what waits eagerly beneath...he inclines his head toward me, and for one wild moment, I'm sure he's going to kiss me there, but instead, he blows on the ink to dry it. The air is lightly perfumed with the scent of pepper imps.

The quill moves continuously in script as he signs it. The stinging point etches 'Neville'. More ink. 'Long' - I long for his touch, his kisses, as his free hand absently pats my tense thigh - 'bottom'. He underscores it with a slashing flourish that makes me gasp. I'm sure he's drawn blood. He raises one finger, cautioning me to silence. I remain silent and motionless as he reaches to the table behind us and finds his wand. He points it at the inscription and murmurs "Impervious!" My skin tingles.

He bends forward, testing the success of the charm with an agonizing flick of his tongue; he nods to himself and looks satisfied with his work.

The words glisten as if still wet, shining blue-gold-silver:

PROPERTY OF  
Neville Longbottom

He strokes the gleaming script with gardening-roughened fingers, and I go gooseflesh all over. Inches away, my cock quivers, begging for his touch - not that he's ever touched me there, not even when he had me naked in Greenhouse #3. He's never done more than rub against me fully dressed, but we both enjoyed that...

The lettering remains pristine.

I look imploringly at him. He's lost most of the puppy-fat that always made him look so roly-poly. His face has angles now, giving it more character; he isn't handsome, but he's...interesting. The curve of his lips was made to be kissed. When he glances up and meets my eyes, he grins. His glinting eyes are greeney-grey like the ocean before a storm...but he has such a sunny smile...I used to think he was a hopeless innocent, but now I know he's no innocent, and I'm the one who feels hopeless.

Neville's hand, still holding the quill, rests on my knee. Now his free hand reaches up and caresses my jaw. I tilt my head, rubbing my cheek against his calloused palm. "Property of..." Does he really mean that? It's what I want most, to be his...not my father's son, or the Dark Lord's servant, but Neville's...what? Plaything? Sex slave? Dare I say it - lover? Is all this teasing a game to him, or does he have any shred of feeling for me?

As he's about to say something, we hear Snape's chair wail and the unmistakable roll of casters on the floor. Neville motions me down from the table, and I slide off, hastily rearranging my robes as the professor's footfalls come closer.

When he appears in the doorway, I'm standing beside the table with the near-empty flask in my hand as Neville pens a doodle on the scrap of parchment. He glances at me and flicks his eyes toward Snape. I find it endearing that he's so commanding with me, but is still shy around the gruff Potions Master. "We did it, sir!" I announce, raising the beaker with its tell-tale sparkle of drying ink.

Professor Snape comes over to the table, examining the container. Neville offers him the quill, and he tests the last drops of ink from the flask on the piece of parchment. Knowing where that quill-tip was just moments ago gives me the oddest sensation...as our teacher pens the words 'Indigoneus Bellissima' with tight, crabbed letters, my thigh twitches. He holds it up to the light, watching the blue-metallic twinkle in the torchlight.

"Very well," he says as the ink dries. "You've succeeded in producing the ink correctly. "Ten points for Slytherin." That's not fair, but after all, he is head of Slytherin house. I clear my throat. "And five points for Gryffindor," he says irritably, tossing the parchment onto the table. "Sign that so I'll have a record of it for my files."

He hands me the quill, and I manage somehow to write 'D. Malfoy' legibly. Passing the pen to Neville, our hands brush together and I try to steel myself not to give away my feelings in front of the professor. Watching 'N. Longbottom' appear in the quill's wake, I'm in an agony of memory and desire.

Snape takes the signed parchment. "I believe Professor Sprout is in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey. You may want to show that ink to her before anything happens to it, such as random acts of clumsiness by Longbottom." His lips curls. Neville's humbly lowered gaze is somewhere in the vicinity of the Potions teacher's chin. "I suggest you do it speedily, it's nearly time for curfew."

Grabbing our belongings, we exit the Potions dungeon and trot to the infirmary. Neville doesn't say anything to me about what's just happened, and he isn't looking at me. What's he thinking, I wonder? That I'm a prat for letting him scribble on me? But he signed it - he put his name on me - that has to mean something!

There are no students in the infirmary at the moment. Our Herbology instructor is laughing in Madam Pomfrey's office as we walk up to the doorway. The two of them have a spread of biscuits and tea on the desk, and there's soft music playing on the wireless. The nurse wipes the smile from her face and asks us briskly what we need.

I lag behind a bit - this part of it is Neville's show. He apologizes for interrupting the ladies, and goes on to demonstrate the successful product for Professor Sprout, presenting her with a bottle. There's no diffidence on his part now, no shyness or hanging back. He's confident on the subject and articulate - I've never seen this side of him; and it's curiously thrilling.

"Nice work!" she compliments him. "We'll have to increase the Indigoneus beds for next season so you can make more. Twenty points each for Gryffindor and Slytherin." She beams at us, and Neville looks pleased.

Suddenly, I don't feel at all well. It's just dawned on me that we're done. Hours spent studying distilling techniques in old books, thoughtful discussions on what went wrong with our first attempts and what we ought to do differently, those evenings in the shadowy Potions lab - all the time we've spent together in recent weeks - now I no longer have an excuse to keep company with my Gryffindor, and the thought horrifies me.

It's late enough that the corridor is deserted when Neville stops, studying me. He maneuvers me back against the wall - his outstretched arm isn't an embrace, but as he stands very close, I'm weak with wanting him to - I can't fool myself; I'd let him do whatever pleases him. I am his, and have been since before he ever noticed me that way. Being with him makes me feel like a different person, someone who isn't a Malfoy, someone who's allowed to have feelings about other things than power.

"We did it," he says with quiet approval,grey-green eyes meeting mine for the first time since we left the dungeon. "Nice work, Drake." Butterflies the size of owls flutter in my stomach at his intimate grin. Don't let him be teasing, please let him mean it... He's about to kiss me again, storm-at-sea eyes looming ever-closer...the heat of him, so much bigger and taller than I am...

Hungrily, our mouths devour each other, lips and tongues uttering little groans as we attack one another, pent-up passions surging - right there in the corridor where anyone could see us. I think I'm going to die, to explode, when his hand finds my crotch, urgently rubbing my aching need for him. Unable to control myself any longer, I reach out to stroke the bulge beneath his robes.

A crash in the distance breaks the moment. Probably that unspeakable Peeves causing trouble.

Snogging in the hallways...we must be mental, both of us. Neville's breathing heavily, watching me. "Stay behind after Herbology tomorrow," he tells me, and I nod with joy. He still wants to be with me! Delight and desire are flooding through me and I smile broadly at him.

"But let's be clear on one very important point," he says, face-to-face with me, a strong hand coming up to hold my chin firmly and not letting me look away. "You're mine." A quick, rough kiss. "Mine, you understand?" I try to nod, but his grip won't allow it. "If you ever come to me with anyone else's mark on you, it's over - is that clear?"

He means the Dark Mark, I realize, and now the owls are doing acrobatics. I know what's expected of me by my family. As soon as I'm of age, they'll insist that I receive the Dark Lord's emblem. Refusing may cost me my life, accepting will make me wish I was dead. "I understand," I whisper.

"Good," he answers, releasing my chin with a gentle pat on my jaw. "We'd better get back to our dorms, it's getting late. See you tomorrow!"

Watching the sweep of his robes as he strides away, I lean against the wall for support, a marked man.


End file.
